Thursday, September 15, 2011

Rambling Thoughts on Calendars, Seasons, and Motorcycles

September 15^th.

Man, wasn’t it August just 20 minutes ago? Time is absolutely flying by these days, and for once I can’t blame it on my busy life. I am busy, but the kind of busy that usually causes the clock and calendar to shift to warp speed. This may that part of growing older that I’ve read about, that as the years pile up, the days seem to move much faster.

But whether I want it to or not, September is officially half over. October, my favorite time of year is rapidly approaching. It’s the one month of the year that I wish would slow down, take its time and drift languidly through its 31-day lifespan. But as usually happens, there is a significant gap between what I want, and what actually is.

The heat and humidityof summer has finally left us here in the mountains. The first breaths of cool air have blown down from Canada, and we are now in that time of year when weather shifts wildly and sometimes rapidly. Two days ago, it was warm, humid, and still. Tonight, we will have our first frost of the season. This does create difficulties in dressing one’s self, especially for motorcycling.

In the mornings, I install the zip-in liners in jacket and pants, and don a sweatshirt for one more layer. I put on my heavy gloves and take off for work. The air is chilly, especially on the hands and feet, and with the shortening daylight, the commute is now done in the gray half-light of dawn. On my mind also is that this is the time of year when deer become active, and I must be extremely vigilant as I travel. But while the daylight lasts, the ride is spectacular. In another three weeks or so, the leaves will start dressing themselves in their Technicolor hues and the mountainsides will become iridescent. The sky will lose its milky shade and turn a spectacular vivid blue. The sunlight, freed from summer’s haze, will make all nature’s colors starkly beautiful.

The Kawaski VN900LT: My Take

I don’t think there’s a more difficult thing for the American male than to admit a mistake, especially when it comes to the purchase of a particular motorcycle.

I’ve been riding for 18 years and over 200,000 miles. My passion for riding started with a job some 35 miles from home. The commute was becoming a real burden, with gas at that time a killer $1.14 per gallon. My better half had thus far resisted my entreaties with that consummate skill all wives possess. But by this time, the kids had become old enough that she decided I could risk my neck in the cause of the family budget.

I acquired my first bike, a 1981 Suzuki GS550T, for $500. It was a sharp-looking standard, cheap enough to buy and maintain while I learned how to ride. I dropped it a few times, but the only casualties were the turn signal lights, which stuck out from the forks. A nearby salvage yard managed to keep me supplied with fresh ones. I rode a lot in all weather conditions (save snow and ice) and that bike taught me a lot. Over time, I moved up to a 1980 Yamaha XS Eleven Special, then a BMW K75RT, and a Honda PC800 Pacific Coast, with which I enjoyed an enduring 100,000-mile relationship. However, once I sold the PC, we went into a period of financial trial that forestalled the purchase of a new bike for two agonizing years.

Finally in the spring of 2009, I bought a 2007 Kawasaki Vulcan 900. I had that bike for about two months before having my third accident. I was distracted by a car that had started to pull out of a parking lot across my path and thus didn’t see the guy who had stopped in front of me. I applied the brakes, which were quite a bit more reactive than what I was used to, and locked up the front wheel. My lane positioning was completely wrong, riding in the “grease pit” portion of the lane, so the bike snap-rolled to the left and went down hard. I was saved from a broken leg by the crash bars, but still managed to crack a rib. With my own elbow. Fortunately, this happened right in front of a hospital, so I had two doctors by my side in seconds. I survived. The bike was totaled.

It took a couple of months for me to heal up. (A busted rib is a whole new kinda pain, let me tell you.) But I managed to find a 2006 Vulcan 900LT with fewer miles for a real good price, so I bought it.

Share the Road!

The past couple of weeks have been mostly meteorological nirvana for motorcyclists in the region. After a hard winter and a frustrating April, the sun and warmth of spring have finally arrived in the Laurel Highlands.

But it’s also a hazardous time. Drivers are still growing their “motorcycle eyes” as evidenced by the numerous near-misses I’ve seen already this month. Every year, PennDot and motorcycle groups like the American Motorcycle Association and ABATE issue cautionary statements urging drivers to look carefully for those single headlights before pulling into or across traffic, or changing lanes. Usually it’s June before I see a general improvement in people’s observational habits.

Drivers are not the only issue. All motorcycle riders experience that joie de vivre of the ride, but some take that joy to extreme. Speeding and weaving, pulling stunts in traffic, riding impaired, and tailgating are some of the actions I have come to call “riding stupid.” You’re having fun. I get that. But you not only risk yourself, you risk other people on the road who may have to swerve out of your way, even getting into accidents themselves.

Throttle Back and Live

For the last year or so on one of my websites, “Soul of a Motorcyclist,” I’ve been tracking motorcycle accidents. I started this as a way of educating myself on common factors involved in accidents and applying that knowledge to practical self-defense on the road.

Motorcycling, for all of its joys is an inherently dangerous activity. The multitude of hazards are too numerous to list in the space allotted here. However, the most common are well-known to riders:

· Failure to yield: When another vehicle turns left across a rider’s path, pulling out from a side street or driveway, or changing lanes.

· Sudden Stops: A vehicle slows or stops suddenly in the traffic lane in response to a traffic jam or to execute a left turn. The rider is unable to react in time.

· Single-bike accidents: Usually a catastrophic loss of control for a variety of reasons, such as road conditions, debris, animals, or a medical incident with the rider or a mechanical problem with the bike.

· Excessive speed, carelessness, distracted or impaired riding.

Adding to these hazards, many riders are woefully ill-informed with regards to proper braking technique. Experts now say 90% of a bike’s stopping power is in the front brake. In an emergency stop, the bike’s weight shifts forward, taking weight and therefore frictional coefficient from the back tire. Riders who primarily use the rear brake will find their stopping distances increased significantly.

Thunder in the Valley 2011: The Dream that Roared

Summer is rally season for the motorcycle community. Every weekend throughout these hazy crazy days somewhere motorcyclists are gathering.

Every June since 1998, this valley has resonated with the thunder of motorcycles. In the years since, Thunder in the Valley© has become one of the premier events of motorcycling. From across the country, riders stream into the Johnstown area for four days of fun, food, and fellowship. Scheduled the week after Laconia, New Hampshire’s Bike Week, it provides a nice segue for east coast riders and a great way to polish off a two-week two-wheeled vacation.

Every rally has its separate attractions and charms. But this one, “The Little Rally That Could…And Did” has become something special.

Thunder in the Valley© combines the best elements of a motorcycle rally. In the fellowship of 200,000 riders are people who instinctively know why we own these machines. Vendors provide a plethora of items to shower upon our bikes and ourselves. Music is always present in several venues, so that you’re never out of earshot of entertainment from the toe-tappin’ to the foot stompin’. Food is present in abundance, from traditional rally fare to regular restaurant cuisine. Manufacturers provide the opportunity to take their bikes for test rides, and offer good deals should your heart be captured. And outside of town lie dozens of roads that twist and turn through the heart-melting beauty of the Laurel Highlands, providing many hours of what could only be termed perfect rides.

The Song of the Open Road

The sun is just rising into a clear sky, the day still fresh, new, and unspoiled. After one last check of the loaded bike, the key is turned, the starter punched. The engine roars, and with a final good-bye, the bike rolls down the driveway and onto the road. The spirit soars, for we have answered the call of the open road.

Every spring, I suffer the pangs of adventure. I try to satisfy, or at least allay them with 200-mile Saturday rides, and taking the long way home from work. But as the weather warms, and the day lengthens, I cannot help but open a road atlas and dream a little.

Dramatic landscapes float through my mind, much like a high plains thunderstorm gliding across the sky. In those visions is a voice, subtle and seductive, that calls me to flee the box of my life for the freedom of the open road.

A map is the canvas upon which I paint my dreams; a portrait of limitless plains, powerful mountains, shifting deserts, and shoreline highways. My eyes follow the multi-colored lines on the page, but in my mind, I feel the sun on my shoulders, the wind in my face, and the exultation of a questing and restless spirit.

Even in my childhood, the horizon always beckoned. For others, that line between earth and sky is a barrier, a protective wall surrounding the known and familiar. To me, however, the horizon is a gateway to places I’ve never been and things I’d never seen; people I’d never met. Experiences I’d never had. I am irresistibly drawn to the unknown beyond the known.

We traveled far as a family. Before I was 12, I had already been to 21 states, Canada, and Mexico. But it wasn’t until I began my relationship with a motorcycle that I discovered the real joy in the journey.

My first long road trip was a Labor Day escape to the shores of Lake Superior. I remember that day well. The heat and humidity was already oppressive by 8:00 in the morning as I headed north, crossing the farmlands of northern Missouri and Iowa. Departing Minneapolis in the evening, I raced the sunset for Duluth, cresting the hill above that port city just after sunset. Below me, the city glittered like jewels scattered along the shore.

But the best moment was when I reached my campsite at Two Harbors. After 700 miles and 14 long hours, I beheld a huge full moon rising over the still waters, its soft light bathing the world in silver. Even today, the memory still leaves me breathless.

Two years later, I embarked on an epic 9-day sojourn through the rugged beauty of the American Southwest.

Yet today, I can close my eyes and remember the easy grace of Kansas’ Flint Hills, the torn and beaten land in Oklahoma and West Texas still scarred from the dust bowl. And an old weather-beaten shack off the side of the road; the wooden gravestone of a broken dream.

I see the verdant valleys of New Mexico’s Sacramento Mountains, and the stark, empty desert of the Jornada del Muerto. There was a lovingly restored Tombstone, Arizona; the incredible heat of Phoenix, the natural artistry of Sedona, and the raw beauty of Oak Creek Canyon. Through Colorado’s Rockies, I careened along twisted mountain traces, balancing the centrifugal against the centripetal on a knife-edge of lunacy.

There was the retired couple who really understood the “why” of my journey. The 4-year-old boy in Tombstone, how wide his eyes were, sitting on the motorcycle’s seat. And the longing in them as his smiling father led him away.

So, it is on this April night that a thousand memories visit, leaving behind a familiar sweet ache. I want to go again. It does not matter that I am not the young man I once was. I am certain the time will come again.

Someday, the rising sun will find me once again on a bike packed for adventure and discovery. And I will joyfully ride to the distant horizon, my heart singing a glorious anthem…

The song of the open road.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Types of Street Motorcycles

Scooters: Small to medium engines (80 to 650 cc), excellent mpg, comfortable to ride, step through frames, smaller wheels, some luggage space. But, they are smaller in size, harder for other motorists to see. The smaller scooters may not be powerful enough for the highway, particularly when carrying heavy loads. Because of their small size and light weight, they are also prone to high crosswinds and gusts by passing semis and dump trucks. Honda Elite, Suzuki Burgman.

Standards: Also called “naked bikes” because they have no fairings or body panels. Small to very large displacement (250 to 2300 cc), good to excellent mpg, mostly comfortable, no luggage space, although some may have cargo racks. The smaller types of this class are good for all-around general duty. They are relatively inexpensive and cheap to maintain. The larger types are heavy, fast, and can be a real handful for the novice rider. Honda Rebel and Nighthawk, Suzuki GS550, Ducati Monster, Suzuki SV650, Triumph Rocket III.

Motorcycles: Choosing Wisely

Gas prices have soared and show no signs of going down, which has driven cost of operating a car or truck for personal use high enough to be of real concern to your household budget. In your search for ways to cut those costs, you may be considering a motorcycle or scooter.

But is it really that much cheaper?

For those of you considering two-wheel transportation, there are some things you need to seriously think about as you make this decision.

First of all, why are you buying the bike?

This may seem a bit of an asinine question, but stay with me, here. There are nine different types, or classes of street-legal motorcycles, each designed for different purposes. Scooters, standards, cruisers, dual sports, sport bikes, sport-tourers, tourers, trikes, and customs. If you’re only commuting around 10 miles per day and you don’t intend to ride to Glacier National Park this summer, you don’t need a $30,000 Harley full-dresser. You can do just as well with a large scooter, or a medium-sized standard. Also, while you’re in learning mode, those less-expensive bikes are less expensive to repair.

How much can you spend?

Hybrids and the Future of Motorcycles*

*Johnstown, PA Tribune-Democrat
April 17, 2011
as "Raise a cheer for big electric bikes"

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

The internal combustion engine is living on borrowed time. Gas and diesel fuel are vulnerable to political and environmental pressures that make its supply and price unstable. In response to these conditions, electric vehicles are attempting to move to the mainstream, but limited range and the fact that plug-in outlets still get electricity mostly from coal-fired power plants relegate them to novelty status.

There doesn’t seem to be a single inventor of the IC engine, but rather an extensive roster of inventors and engineers contributing to its development. The first concept was done by a Mesopotamian named Al-Jazari in 1206. The Chinese, Mongols, and Arabs developed a working model in the 13^th century. Da Vinci produced a design in 1509. But even with all the improvements, it’s still the same basic principal that has been around for over 800 years.

Hybrids have been a good compromise, combining electricity and a small gas engine. The design combines the emission-less value of electrical motors with the range of the IC engine. This development is encouraging, although no one has yet given me a satisfactory answer to the question of what do you do with the toxic battery packs after they wear out.

Motorcycles and the Statistics of Death*

*Somerset, PA Daily American
April 16, 2011
as "Motorcycles and statistics"

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

Motorcycle riding season is nearly upon us, and naturally I am eagerly awaiting the nexus of meteorological conditions conducive to safe riding.

My colleagues, out of their concern for my safety, deposited the latest edition of the Journal of Forensic Science on my desk. You might characterize this publication as the pinup magazine for Coroners. Three articles were bookmarked. One was entitled, “Massive Lesions Owing to Motorcyclist Impact Against Guardrail Posts,” a study of two accident victims who, after losing control of their rides, slid across the road and slammed into the posts supporting the guardrails, cutting one of the riders literally in half. I’ll spare you the gory details, but I have to admit the pictures were kinda cool. Another article, called, “Traumatic Testicular Displacement in Motorcycle Drivers” went into excruciating detail (including some not-so-cool pictures) about the fate of the family jewels during the trauma of frontal collisions.

Touched as I was over their apparent concern, I read the articles over and set them aside.

The third one was the most interesting. “Death by Motorcycle: Background, Behavioral, and Situational Correlates of Fatal Motorcycle Collisions.” This was an impressive statistical study done by Dr. Samuel Nunn, Professor of the School of Public and Environmental Affairs and Director of the Center for Criminal Justice Research, part of the Indiana University-Purdue University of Indianapolis.

"C'mon, Spring!"

This is a tough time of year for a motorcyclist. Winter has been long and unrelenting. Even today, approaching mid-March, as I look outside, the hill a half-mile away has gone opaque, shrouded in yet one more snowstorm. Below my window, the Little Conemaugh River runs deep and rapid, fed by the almost constant rainfall and melting snow. I am anxiously, even impatiently waiting for the wintry mess to give way to clear skies and relatively warmer temperatures. Out in the garage, my bike sits. I sense Wyatt is also feeling frustrated. I can almost hear him whisper an exasperated “C’mon, man!”

But these are feelings grown familiar. They happen every year about this time, especially since I moved from Missouri to the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania almost seven years ago. In my memory, I remember March as the start of the riding season. Temperatures were still on the cool side, but snow and ice had become a forgotten memory. Here in the mountains, however, climate plots against me. Every year, the last time snow fell from the sky was as late as mid-May. The riding season is short, but tempered by the almost complete lack of uncomfortably hot days.

Over the winter, I bought a new tire, a new crash bar, a new luggage rack, a new stator, and had my seat sent out to be re-done. The Kawasaki VN900 is a marvelous machine. It is a mid-size bike that comes off looking much bigger than it actually is. Obviously, some skilled and experienced engineers were involved in its concept and design.

I just wish they hadn’t given the seat design to the intern.

Red-Light Purgatory

When reads about “Dead Red” laws, the image conjured up is of some draconian McCarthy-esque measure from the 1950’s. Actually, it has nothing to do with politics.
Every motorcyclist and bicyclist is familiar with the frustration of pulling up to and intersection and watching the lights go through 2 or 3 cycles without getting the green. This problem has been the subject of increasingly vociferous lobbying from riders.

Some intersections don’t have automatically sequenced lights. They’re triggered by sensors buried in the roadway. These sensors don’t rely on weight, but mass. As a large metal object, like a car or truck, rolls up, the steel creates a “bubble” in the ambient magnetic field. This bubble is detected by the sensors which then trigger the lights. The Navy uses this method, called "Magnetic Anomaly Detection," to locate submerged submarines. These devices have to be calibrated, but vehicle used is usually the 10-ton truck the road crews work out of. In terms of magnetic mass, that’s a far cry from even the largest motorcycle. Consequently, the rider sits at the intersection…and sits…and sits…and sits…well, you get the idea.

Riding in the Thaw*

*Somerset Daily American
March 19, 2011
as "Start out slow this spring"

Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Couey

As February turns into March, warmer weather will begin to spread northward. Eventually even in the arctic-like north and northeast, the snow will melt, the roads will clear, and motorcyclists will take to the road in glee to start another riding season.

But in some parts of the nation, winter still grimly hangs on. In those areas, however, riders will be teased by the appearance of a day or two of relatively warm weather and sun. On those days, it is hard to resist the temptation to take the bike out for a spin.

But there are still dangers out there.

Roads are still covered with salt, sand, and whatever else the DOT uses when the snow falls. For a motorcycle, a road surface like that can be similar to riding on a bed of ball bearings. Traction and control is decidedly iffy, not helped by the water left by melting snow. Also, there are still shaded places where patches of ice remain.

On top of that, we must remember that drivers are not used to looking for us this early in the season. Caution is the prudent style when riding in traffic. This is especially true when approaching cross traffic, or motorists pulling out from side streets or turning left across your path.

"Riders in the Storm"

Motorcyclists of all stripes look forward with great anticipation to the end of winter and the return of sunshine, warm weather, and clear roads. Spring can be a glorious time to ride, but changing weather patterns can develop dangerous conditions.

Spring in the Midwest and high plains is a time when war breaks out between warm, moist air surging up from the Gulf of Mexico and cold, dry air making its stubborn retreat into Canada. The resulting battleground can generate strong to severe thunderstorms, some of which may spawn tornadoes.

There are different types of thunderstorms, and it’s important to know the difference. There are isolated storms, the ones meteorologists like to call “garden variety” or “pop-up” that develop, rain themselves out and dissipate over a couple of hours or less. The hazards of these storms are torrential rainfall, extremely limited visibility, strong wind gusts, and lightning. Most riders are familiar with these, a regular encounter on afternoon rides. Probably the biggest danger is the heavy rain, which can induce hydroplaning, a wave of water that builds up at the front of your tires that can actually lift the bike off the road’s surface, sending the machine skidding across the asphalt. Don’t think for one moment that rubber tires protect you from lightning strikes. It has happened, last year in Kentucky for example. Also, the heavy raid restricts visibility for drivers as well. We know how hard it is for them to see us on a good day. In a downpour, trying to peer through a windshield and wipers, it’s even more difficult. Since these storms are isolated, i.e. fairly small in footprint, the best thing is simply to pull off and wait for them to pass, or change your route to go around them.

Legislation Alert!!!

LEGISLATION ALERT: For those who insist on using city streets as your personal race track, heed this story from Vancouver, Canada:

Two accused road racers face motorcycle forfeitures

Process provides civil penalties for criminal behaviour, critic charges

By Kelly Sinoski, with files from Tiffany Crawford, Vancouver Sun December 13, 2010

Two men charged with dangerous driving in October after allegedly racing their Honda motorcycles on Metro Vancouver highways could be the latest victims of the B.C. Civil Forfeiture Act.

Law enforcement officials are seeking to sell the street bikes and keep the proceeds under the 2006 legislation, which states vehicles can be forfeited and sold if a civil court rules unlawful activity -- such as impaired driving or street racing -- could have caused severe injury or death.

Rob Kroeker, executive director of the Civil Forfeiture Office, confirmed "the case is before us but we're not going to comment on that."

The move worries Ian Tootill, cofounder of Safety by Education Not Speed Enforcement, who said he's becoming increasingly concerned about the trend of forfeitures and seizures, noting "this [Civil Forfeiture] Act is intended to seize the proceeds of ill-gotten gains."

"We're dead set against this. When did it start being acceptable to start seizing assets of people who broke the law?" he asked. "We've never been happy with the legislation [around] street racing ... this obviously is not a case of street racing set up as a spectator sport. It's two guys driving fast on street bikes."

Micheal Vonn, policy director of the B.C. Civil Liberties Association, argued her group doesn't support civil forfeiture at all, noting that if someone breaches the Criminal Code, they should be prosecuted through the criminal process.

She said the government has set a lower bar -- on the balance of probabilities rather than the proportionality of fines -- as the basis to seize property. This means a soccer mom racing to a game could lose her station wagon instead of being handed a $175 fine.

And because it's a civil matter, she added, most residents would be unrepresented because they wouldn't be able to afford a lawyer.

"In a criminal world, it's the punishment fits the crime. There's no sense of fundamental fairness of where this is appropriate," Vonn said, noting an appropriate remedy for speeding tickets is a fine. "As we predicted, this is becoming more popular by law enforcement because it's a money-maker."

Last month, a $235,000 Ferrari, the most valuable vehicle ever seized by the province, was impounded after a street race that reached speeds of 200 km/h. The blue 2008 Ferrari Scuderia and a white 2008 BMW M6 nearly hit a woman and her two young children walking along the side of the road as they raced up Mount Seymour in a 60-km/h zone on Sept. 25, according to the RCMP.

Solicitor-General Rich Coleman said last month the high-end Ferrari and BMW were the most "salacious" vehicles removed from the road since a 2008 amendment to the Civil Forfeiture Act gave the province authority to seize vehicles driven recklessly.

It was the first time vehicles have been taken by the province because of dangerous driving.
The Ferrari was to be sold to a local dealer for $235,000, with 50 per cent of the proceeds going to a relative of the driver who was part owner with the driver but was not involved in the incident. The province will receive 20 per cent and the driver 30 per cent. Coleman said some of the sale money has to go back to the owners because they have bank loans to cover.

Since 2006, more than $13 million in cash and assets have been forfeited to the province, including $4.4 million since April 1.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Protecting Our Right to Ride

Without a doubt the most controversial topic in the motorcycle community is the eternal debate over helmet laws. The two schools of thought are sharply divided. On one side are what I call the Freebirds. They prize personal freedom above all, reasoning that if the individual is willing to undertake the risk and accept the responsibilities for that decision, then they should be allowed to go bare-headed. On the other side are the Pragmatists. While this bunch embraces the freedom of the ride, they respect mortality. They understand that the road is not within their control, so they choose to wear the “Brain Bucket.”

Freebirds say that helmets restrict peripheral vision and add dangerous weight to the head, increasing the danger of cervical spinal injury. Pragmatists say that even a slow fall to the asphalt can bounce the head hard enough to do serious damage, and that road debris thrown up by cars and trucks towards the rider’s head is a real danger.

For the record, I’m a Pragmatist.

Part of the frustration rises out of vacuous opinions put forward by talking heads who wouldn’t know a swing arm from a steering head bearing. These willfully ignorant remain convinced that all bikers are outlaws who traffic drugs, cause riots, and (gasp!) go weeks without bathing.

Heartbreakdown

Saturday morning dawns spectacularly and the road beckons. Full of anticipation, I gear up and head for the garage. Starting the bike, however, I’m startled by a sound that shouldn’t be there.

Worried, I head to the bike shop, where the service manager identifies the sound as the stator. But after I tell him that the sound just started that day, he assures me that I should be okay for the weekend.

Relieved, I hit the road. My instincts, though, tell me that it’s probably prudent to stay fairly close to home. I’ve learned to listen to those voices.

I head west on PA31, turning south at Trent Road, then west on County Line Road. I weave along through the woods, spotting Alpine-themed cabins along the road. This is one of my favorite local rides, a tunnel through dense and picturesque woodlands. I love forests, and this is a road that feeds my soul.

I pull into the mini-mart at the Champion crossroads to peruse the map. While so engaged, I become aware the engine, normally purring at idle, is laboring and beginning to chug. Then with a sudden gasping finality, it stops.

Stealing a Day from Winter*

*Somerset, PA Daily American

November 20, 2010

A person’s experience with a motorcycle is less about ownership than about relationship. When you ride, something happens inside and no matter how hard you resist, the darn thing just gets under your skin.

Western Pennsylvania was recently blessed with a string of incredibly beautiful days for mid-November. Daytime highs in the 50s and 60s and abundant sunshine gifted local motorcyclists with one last riding splurge.

Last Thursday was a holiday, and after I did a few chores around the house, I geared up, mounted up, and headed out for a long ride.

I decided to head up PA56 northeast out of Johnstown. The day was perfect, with just a little bite to the wind. With the deciduous trees now mostly bare-branched, details of the terrain that had been hidden behind a blanket of leaves now were revealed. Isolated houses were visible within the trees. Up to now, the only clue to their existence was the end of the gravel driveways that snaked out of the woods.

The roads were clear, although their twisty nature and the abundant traffic kept my speed down. This is to be expected. You can’t make time on these PA roads. I once took a ride to Erie. The round-trip took over 12 hours to accomplish.

On this day, I rode up north, meandering through small and medium-sized towns. As I pass, I see people busily preparing their homesteads for the winter. The maples having finally dropped their foliage, the last of the leaves are being raked and bagged. People are working quickly, not the languid pace of summer, and there seems to be a bit of urgency afoot. A couple of men are splitting logs and carefully stacking them in long symmetrical rows. On the farms, the fields are bare, the harvest gathered. Here and there, a tractor turns the remaining stalks into the soil. The few squirrels I see are frantically dashing about, their cheeks stuffed with acorns.

Airbags and Bikes

Motorcycling is a dangerous pursuit. Of this, nobody’s in disagreement. Riders can try to protect themselves, but in that moment when a driver fails to yield and pulls in front of you, or a deer dashes out of the woods, there’s very little that riders can do.

In the last 15 years or so, a number of inventors and manufacturers have been developing wearable airbags.

The airbag was a new wrinkle when introduced into automobiles in 1973. GM was the first to the marketplace with an airbag-equipped Olds Toronado. Sensor-driven airbags had been part of the patent world since the 1950s, but until then nobody could come up with a system that inflated the bags fast enough. Since then, perhaps tens of thousands of motorists owe their lives to that pillow erupting from their steering wheel.

While car airbags are proven technology, such devices for bikes have lagged behind. This is primarily because of the differing dynamics between what happens inside a car/truck and what happens on the back of a motorcycle in a front-end collision.

Memories and the End of the Season

The air has turned cold. Outside, the winds have a bite to them and even when standing in the sunshine, its warmth is barely felt. In the mornings, frost lies sparkling on the fallen leaves. It is a time of transition, when the warmth of summer and the comfortable cool of fall are behind us. Ahead lie long months of cold and snow.

For motorcyclists, it is time to place our bikes in hibernation.

For me, it’s also a time to look back on the riding season, replaying the memorable rides and savoring them one last time.

The first step is to give the bike a good cleaning. This removes any gunk I missed during the summer. It also makes it easier to note any leaks that may develop over the winter. It’s too cold to use water, so I’m left with a can of spray cleaner, a Q-tip, and a pile of old t-shirts.

Its always with great anticipation that I await the end of snow (usually mid-May here in the mountains). The winter of 2009-10 was particularly difficult. Here in Somerset, we logged fourteen-and-a-half feet of snow for the season. So when the last of the lake-effect streamers died and the temperatures rebounded, I joyfully trekked to Cernic’s where my bike spent a warm and dry, if lonely, winter. The sun was shining gloriously, the sky a soft blue. A few good days of rain had washed away the salt and sand. Brian, the Service Manager, had everything ready. The spring maintenance was done, and gleaming and lovely beyond words, it beckoned impatiently.

Fall Riding: Joys and Risks

Fall is a joyous time of year for riding. For a few short weeks, our favorite roads become tunnels of riotous color, the sunlight providing a marvelous glow to the trees. The milky humidity-filled skies have cleared to a perfect cobalt blue and the air has lost its heavy summer feel to a cool freshness that engages the senses and enlivens the soul.

But in this beauty is an increased amount of risk for riders. This is the time of year when riders begin to disappear from the streets and highways. Because you are now a rarer sight, drivers will be less inclined to take notice of you. During the summer, humidity tends to soften the sunlight. But in the fall, the humidity disappears, leaving the air perfectly clear. This means that for anyone facing the sun, now at a lower angle in the sky, the light will be very bright, even blinding. Remember this, especially when you ride with the sun to your back. People coming towards you will be dazzled by the light and you will be very likely invisible to them, especially when it’s time for them to turn left across your path. Riding with your high beam on just may give you a little more visibility.

The fall storms drop rain and bring strong winds, blowing foliage off the trees. Remember that wet leaves are very slick and in the cool air, roads will take longer to dry. And as you ride down into deep valleys, there just might be a bit of ice or frost on the pavement, especially in the morning.

The Ride Versus the Destination*

*Pittsburgh, PA Post-Gazette

October 14, 2010

Years ago, I was bitten by the motorcycle bug and over time, it has grown into a passion. My wife has ridden her own bike in the past, but her view is far more practical. It’s transportation, nothing more. She tolerates my fervent single-mindedness about the bike and the ride, instinctively understanding how fundamental it is to my enjoyment of life.

I’m all about the journey. When I go on a joyride, it’s almost never with a specific destination in mind. She, on the other hand, is driven by destinations. If we go for a ride, we must stop someplace and do something, otherwise, why go?. Lately, I’ve tried to anticipate that requirement, but rarely successfully.

One Saturday, a glorious early fall afternoon, we rolled out of Somerset bound for my favorite destination, “Who-Knows-Whereburgh.” I went south, heading in a vague way towards Western Maryland. As the tree-lined road flashed past, the idea crystallized in my brain to go to Deep Creek Lake.

My wife was quiescent during these ruminations, occupied with her romance novel. Yes. She reads while we ride, which is better than falling asleep, which she used to do with disturbing regularity. When I felt the hard thump of her helmet between my shoulder blades, I put one hand on the bike, the other on her.

Glory Days*

*Somerset Daily American

September 18, 2010

September has arrived, and finally the heat, humidity, and haze has left the Laurel Highlands. Over the weekend, Canada sent us our first mass of cool, dry air, presaging the best time of the year for riding in these mountains.

My favorite time of the year is that stretch of weeks from late September through early November. Fall colors began to peek out here and there around the 4th week of September. By mid-October, the season is usually in its full technicolor glory, the magnificent reds and golds against a sky of pure cobalt blue.

The Laurel Highlands is part of the Allegheny Range of the Appalachian Mountains. Like most of the Appalachians, they are relatively low in elevation, less than 3,000 feet. Unlike a lot of mountainous areas, the Laurels are covered in a rich population of leafy deciduous trees, rather than evergreen coniferous. Because of that, the hillsides at their peak can glow like the sun itself.

There are dozens of roads that follow the hilly terrain, most gently curved, although you can find a few squigglies on the map. There's no shortage of beautiful rides. I've lived here six years, and I'm still not done.

The Orange Barrel Ballet

Summer is the high season for motorcycling. The weather is warm and across the country the rider community takes to the roads for trips from a short jaunt to the nearest lake to epic cross-continental journeys.

But summer is also the time of year when orange barrels spring up, marking construction zones as workers try to keep up with our crumbling infrastructure.

The Pennsylvania Turnpike from Pittsburgh east has been a gauntlet of temporary asphalt and lane shifts for the better part of two years. In the 71 miles between Somerset and the Butler Valley exit, less than half can be traveled faster than 55 mph.

This is to be expected.

Our Interstate Highway system, nearing 60 years old, was underbuilt to begin with (half the thickness of Germany's fundamentally safer Autobahn), and has been deteriorating since. These roads are bearing weights that were never envisioned by the engineers who designed them. The tons of sand, salt, cinders, and pre-treatment during the winter also add to the decay. These factors have accelerated deterioration to the point where frustrated planners now say the only way to save the roads is to tear them down to dirt and rebuild.

Choosing...Or Not

Suzuki GS550T

BMW K75RT

Honda PC800

Kawasaki Vulcan 900LT

Soooo many bikes, soooo little time...

Like any guy, I like to look at machines. My eleven years with Caterpillar has left me with a special appreciation for those big, brawny yellow tractors. A child of the ‘60s, I also have a soft spot for carefully restored automotive denizens from that era. A couple of months ago, I came across a pristine 1967 Corvette Sting Ray, my personal favorite, in a parking lot. I stayed there for a good 30 minutes, walking around, peering through the windows, drinking in the incredibly powerful, yet graceful lines. I couldn’t tear myself away; the owner showed up and drove away, favoring me with an understanding look. Once I got home, my wife wanted to know what took me so long. I mumbled something about traffic and long checkout lines. Somehow, I just knew she wouldn’t understand.

Even though I own a perfectly good motorcycle, that doesn’t deter me from surfing websites, checking out what else is for sale. I freely admit to a serious case of E-bay Envy.

I’ve always been a long-distance rider, preferring touring or sport-touring bikes. Now, I’ve bought my first cruiser. (Actually, my second. I dumped the first one.) It is such a different look than what I was used to. Sport-tourers are narrow and sleek. They seem to want to fly even when parked. A cruiser is entirely different; big and beefy, it’s voice a manly, hairy-chested roar when accelerating. At rest, it rumbles like a barely-stable volcano. The chrome catches the sunlight with a special gleam, those random rays of light that warm the soul of a man.

It's Never "Just a Ride"*

*Somerset Daily American

August 21, 2010

The passion for riding motorcycles is as much a spiritual thing as it is psychological. A motorcycle is often referred to as “the cheapest form of therapy” by those who have given in to that special kind of seduction. But there’s a lot of truth to that statement. Most riders treasure their rides; the best escape from the sometimes crushing pressures of daily life. Part of that has to do with the concentration required while in the saddle.

There is an inherent risk to motorcycling. Traffic, road surfaces, debris, animals, changing weather, and texting drivers are all part and parcel of the danger that surrounds us. When on the road, you can’t simmer over a bad workday, or plan the weekend construction project. Thoughts of relationships, bills, schedules, or chores have no place in the rider’s head. There’s just too much going on to allow distractions of any kind.

The uninitiated might opine, “If that’s the case, then why ride at all?”

Listen carefully, Grasshopper.

Welcome!

This is my 5th blog, a compilation of motorcycle-related posts from my "Race the Sunset" blog. While I write about a good many things, my most consistent and reliable muse has been the experience of riding. In 18 years and some 220,000 miles motorcycling has become my greatest passion, the penultimate expression of a freed spirit and unshackled joy.

As a writer and freelance columnist, I have a responsibility to put into words my reflections and emotions generated as life and I flow past one another. However, I have yet to achieve that collection of words and sentences that satisfactorily convey what happens within me while rolling down a road dappled in sunlight and leaves on a perfect day; the horizon beckoning my soul, my heart overflowing.

But that's a challenge that manifestly appeals to me.

Enjoy your stay and feel free to drop a comment or two. If you ride, if you know the passion of which I speak, in this place you're among friends.

Warmest Regards,
Ralph Couey
Somerset, PA

Managing Risks

A couple of years ago I discovered a neat tool, part of the Google universe, called “Google Alerts.” You set it up with one or several key words and an email address, and Google then searches the ‘Net 24/7 for results. As the backbone of my job is research, this has made things easier and much more efficient to find those snippets of information that I need. Most of my alerts are work-related, but some of them are there just for fun.

One alert I titled simply “motorcycle.” My intent was to keep up to date on new developments in the industry as well as finding about motorcycle events around the nation.

However, as a by-product of that search I also get news reports of accidents as well.

I read these, not out of a prurient or morbid interest, but as a way to perhaps learn a little more about safe riding. In reading these reports, I’ve been somewhat surprised. It seems that most of these accidents involve factors that are in control of the rider.

These are a representative sample:

In Clearwater, Florida, a car pulled out of a driveway on one side of a street at the same time a motorcycle pulled out from a driveway across the road, turning in the opposite direction. The two collided, the rider taken to the hospital. The photo shows the car sitting on top of the bike.

In Rancho Cordova, California, near Sacramento, a group of sport riders were practicing stunts on the streets of an undeveloped subdivision. One rider, after completing a trick made a sharp U-turn, turning into the path of another bike. The two collided. The rider of the second bike was killed. Said one of the witnesses, "Each one of us... We got a real reality hit. We gotta think twice about everything. I told myself: I'm not riding anymore. Physically can't. Mentally can't."

In Emery County, Utah, a man driving a Mazda sedan drifted across the centerline, colliding with a motorcycle. The rider died.

Hard Truths and Sacred Cows

In our lives, we have come to accept some ideas as irrefutable truths. Some are ideas that have stood the test of time and research; others are accepted for no other reason than they “feel right.” Sometimes, a sacred cow has only remained sacred because nobody has studied it carefully.

For motorcyclists, one of those sacred cows is the idea that if a car turns left in front of a biker, then the car’s driver is completely, totally, 100% at fault.

Well, maybe not.

While doing some research for a column on motorcycle safety, I stumbled on a very interesting website. “Motorcycle Tips and Techniques” is a site run out of Houston, Texas by James R. Davis and Attorney Elaine Cash Anthony. Together, they run the Master Strategy Group.

Their accomplishments are many, varied, and impressive. Ms. Anthony, in addition to being an accomplished practitioner of the law is also a producer, author, actor, and poet. Mr. Davis is now retired but has been a senior executive in both the securities and IT industries. He is also a court-recognized expert in the area of motorcycles, riding, and the scientific dynamics of both, having been an expert witness in numerous court cases, as well as the author of over 260 articles.

Both Ms. Anthony and Mr. Davis are passionate motorcycle riders. James, in particular, has been riding for over 50 years, logging a half-million miles. Out of that mutual interest arose a suite of websites that has scored with some 17 million readers.

What got my attention was Mr. Davis’ assertion that, in a failure-to-yield accident, the motorcyclist was not entirely blameless. Now, I’ve only been riding for half his miles and years, but I was certain that when a car turns in front of us, that’s a judgment of responsibility that qualifies as a “no-brainer.” I instituted an exchange of emails with him, which at one point turned a bit testy (my fault). But after reading his replies, and perusing the case studies, I was forced to change my mind.

A sacred cow has been cut from the herd.

If Walt Whitman Wore Chaps*

*Somerset, PA Daily American

July 17, 2010

I've been reading Walt Whitman's wonderful poem, "Song of the Open Road," a magical piece of prose that speaks to the heart and spirit of all who have sought the far horizons. In reading this, I think ol' Walt was ahead of his time. Had he lived today, I think he would own a motorcycle.

Always in search of ways to express the magic of the ride, I decided to play around with this poem a bit. I didn't want to post the whole thing -- over 9 pages and 2,800 words -- but I chose verses that I thought appealed to the spirit of the ride, and the rider. And yes, I did "update" some of the language.

Maybe I've committed an act of literary sacrilege. I'm sure the Whitman Society would say so. But after reading about 50 or so of his poems, and reflecting on my own 18 years of open roads, I think Walt Whitman and the modern motorcyclist would be cheerfully inclined to go together, seeking spiritual fulfillment; riding together and singing..."This Song of the Open Road"

Mounted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long path before me,
Leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth, I ask not good fortune—I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth, I whimper no more,
Postpone no more,
Need I, nothing.

Strong and content, I travel the open road
The earth expanding right and left,
The picture alive, every part in its best light.
The engine sings amid the trees, the cheerful voice of the public road.

From this hour, freedom!
From this hour, I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently but with undeniable will, divesting myself of that which would hold me.

Why We Ride

There's a horizon out there.

On the far side are places I've never been...
Things I've never seen...
People I've never met...
Experiences I've never had.

All day long I ride to that horizon, freed by the knowledge
that I have nowhere to be,
and all the time in the world to get there.

There is no destination because the ride itself is the adventure.
I touch the world and the world touches me.

And yet, I am driven by the desire to go there,
see that,
do that...
feel that;
The urgency of a finite life in which to explore the infinite universe.

And the best part?

Every morning there's a new horizon out there;

Calling to me...

I just don't think life gets any better than that.

Why We Ride 2*

Hull Canyon, south of Jerome, Arizona

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat
June 6, 2010

An open road stretches before me under a clear sky, the horizon pierced by the blue peaks of distant mountains. The world glides by in unmatched grandeur. Grasslands bend in concert before prairie zephyrs. Across endless deserts, each rock, draw, and tumbleweed is starkly defined in the clear air. And in those mountains, it begins to bend, twist, and dodge, seemingly alive. Overhead, a dome of blue marks not a limiting roof, but the edge of infinity. Beneath, the engine sings its song among the trees, the steady beat of pistons pounding the pulse of life.

I am intensely alive. I have nowhere to be, and all the time in the world to get there.

Motorcycling is difficult to explain, even to other riders, a conversation that usually starts and ends with…

“You know.”
“Oh, yeah.”

The quest to capture the essence of that experience defies articulation. Oh, we can talk endlessly about sunny spring days gliding along country lanes, the air rich with the scents of an awakening world…

Jornada del Muerto, New Mexico

I’ve been a motorcyclist for almost 18 years. I still remember with great clarity the first ride I took on my ’82 Suzuki GS550T. I was nervous and not very smooth, but the sensation of gliding down the road, the wind blowing past my head, the sky open and glorious above, seized my soul with a powerful embrace, a grip that hasn’t loosened in almost two decades.

Most of the miles that lie in my past were expended on commuting. For some odd reason, we’ve always lived at least 30 miles away from wherever I’ve worked. I’m not sure why that has happened, but it did provide the opportunity to turn a mundane act into a little adventure every day. Looking at my fuel logs, I estimate that I’ve put down in excess of 220,000 miles in that span.

Of course, there were the weekend rides, undertaken after I was freed from my chore list. Also, I took a lot of short trips, less than 500 miles, each time stretching the envelope of my experience. Twice, I embarked on even longer trips, a 6-day jaunt to Lake Superior, and the other a 9-day trek through the U.S. southwest, easily one of the most important times of my entire life.

I still peruse maps from time to time, contemplating other journeys. Time is passing and I know that the physical ability to endure such trips will not be with me much longer. So while I ponder the future, I also allow myself to dream.

A Song of Wyoming

Words and music by John Denver

I’m weary and tired, I’ve done my days ridin’
Nighttime is rollin’ my way;
The sky’s all on fire and the lights slowly fading,
Peaceful and still ends the day.
Out on the trail night birds are callin’
Singin’ their wild melody;
Down in the canyon the cottonwood whispers
A Song of Wyoming for me.

Well, I’ve wandered around the town and the city,
Tried to figure the how and the why.
I’ve stopped all my schemin’;
I’m just driftin’ and dreamin’,
Watching the river roll by.

Here comes that big ole prairie moon risin’,
Shinin’ down bright as can be;
Up on the hill there’s a coyote singin’
A Song of Wyoming for me.

Now its whiskey and tobacco and bitter black coffee,
A lonesome old dogie am I.
Wakin’ up on the range,
Lord I feel like an angel;
Feel like I almost could fly.

Drift like a cloud out over the badlands,
Sing like a bird in the tree;
The wind in the sage sounds like heaven singin’
A Song of Wyoming for me,
A Song of Wyoming for me.

--John Denver

The Magic of the Open Road*

*Johnstown Tribune-Democrat 7/30/2006

The other day, I was passed the URL for the website of an acquaintance, actually a list member of the Internet motorcycle group I belong to. He embarked on a trip that is the stuff of legends. Between July 2 and August 13, he rode 10,000 miles.

According to his online log (updated daily courtesy of WiFi) he traveled from Tennessee all the way up to Dawson and Skagway in Canada’s Yukon Territory and back.

Most of us in the motorcycling community know someone who has taken long, epic trips. I think for the rest of us the reaction is universal; a tinge of envy, yet sharing the excitement of the journey, and with today’s global interconnectivity, living the day-to-day adventure, if only vicariously, via the Internet. For those of us left behind, the walls and ceilings that make up the invisible boundaries of our individual lives seem to close in. For the first time, we sense the prison of obligation and responsibility we’ve built.

Jornada del Muerto, New Mexico

“Cross the most rugged and daunting peaks in utter darkness,

the heavens pouring forth their fury while you grapple for control,

guided by a feeble ray of light barely visible

on a highway black as death. Traverse endless, blistering deserts, the sands a roaring furnace below and the sun a pitiless, burning firestorm above. Follow the tortured paths left behind by those who pioneered the way, seeking to tame a wild land and forge a better life.

Merge in perfect union with a stunning cloudless sky
and breathe deep the fragrant prairie zephyrs.
Follow the sinuous course of a thundering river
to the humble streams that form its source.

In every moment, feel the sublime and awesome hand of God
and in your soul a Communion with the infinite.

Look then to the dark sky and thrill to the promise of the unrisen sun
that will soon shine upon the hook and crook of a gnarled mountain trace,
knowing in your heart the machine’s power to exalt life or render death.
In the quiescence of the deepest night gaze in wonder upon the machine;
your accomplice, partner, and soul mate.

In your innermost reflections, you will come to know this machine
as sinister and yet seductive;
soulless and yet transcendent;
ordinary and yet unique.

Know that even though you own the machine,

the machine possesses you.

The Horizon is calling;
Heed the call.
Go Ride…”

--Original Author Unknown

Additional Material by Ralph Couey

I like maps. Maps are the sketchbooks upon which I plot my fantasies. Open roads, new adventures, alien landscapes, all become a part of the dreams that float through my mind, much as a high plains thunderstorm glides across the horizon. Most people see a road map as a myriad of lines, dots, and words. For me, however, the lines, dots, and words spring into a pseudo-three dimensional reality; limitless plains, powerful mountains, shifting deserts, and countless shoreline highways. My eyes follow the multi-colored lines on the page, but in my mind, I feel the sun on my shoulders, the wind in my face, and the reassuring rumble of a V-twin engine. In the summer of 2002, the urging of those dreams put me on the road to chase my horizons.

PREPPING THE RIDER, THE BIKE, AND THE SOUL

I spent much of my youth chasing about the southwest, first with my father and then as a summer employee of a Texas-based cattle operation. During those years, I fell in love with the wide-open skies and the many-textured and multi-hued terrain. It was so different from my home state Missouri, where the rolling hills made the horizon seem much too close, almost claustrophobic. The west seemed limitless. Even when mountains became the horizon, their dramatic angles and features gave them an aura of eternity. With this land of wide horizons, I also had a deep personal connection. In a youth spent searching for meaning and the answers to questions eternal, the west had given me perspective; a perfect backdrop upon which the musings of a young man’s mind could range as far as the stars and nebulae that populated the night sky, with thoughts as personal and intimate as the inside of a sleeping bag. The memories of those priceless days brought me great comfort over the years during those times when reality became a burden.

My Lake Superior Adventure

For every person who gets into a relationship with that two-wheeled heartbreaker known as a motorcycle at some point the road beckons. Not the afternoon ride, or even the weekend junket; but a true epic journey covering several days and many thousands of miles. It’s inevitable, especially for an American kid who grew up watching the lone hero on horseback ride through countless westerns. We, all of us, go through our days feeling the ties of obligation and responsibility. And we all dream at least a little about shucking off those burdens for a feeling of freedom. For me, that first urge hit in the late summer of 2001. More and more, I was finding myself perusing road atlases, unconsciously choosing routes and stopovers, measuring the miles with my eyes and imagining what it would be like to watch the road unwind beneath my wheels.

I chose the Labor Day weekend, adding a couple of days on either end. And after weighing my available time and pondering the direction of my soul, I chose the destination: Lake Superior.

Lake Superior was gouged out of the tough hide of the Canadian Shield during the last great Ice Age. It is the largest fresh-water body by surface area, and the third largest by volume. It’s very name reflects its place among other lakes in North America. Shaped like a stylized wolf preparing to devour Minnesota, it is a place of heart-stopping beauty. It is also a place where, in the late fall and winter, Mother Nature unleashes her wrath with storms of terrifying fury. Hundreds of shipwrecks lay in her depths, most notably the ore freighter Edmund Fitzgerald. Along her shores lie forests of deep green and rocky shores bearing mute witness to the power of her waves. As I read about the area, I knew it was a place I had to see.

DAY 1

*American Motorcyclist 5/2007

There comes a time in a relationship when parting becomes the necessary, even logical thing to do. For riders, guys especially, the time we spend with our bikes is less "ownership" than "relationship." Over the years and the miles, a bond develops between us and our machines. It's difficult to articulate exactly why this is so.

In most cases, riding is viewed as a solo activity. Whether it's a ride through spectacular natural beauty, a vigorous prosecution of hairpins and switchbacks, or simply time spent clearing one's head, the experience is an internal one. Ronald Reagan once said, "The best thing for the inside of a man is the outside of a horse." Change "horse" to "motorcycle" and most riders would sagely nod in agreement.

A motorcycle, despite our willful anthropomorphizing, is a mechanical construct; an engineer's vision executed by an assembly line. The unenlightened insist that it is a soulless collection of metal and plastic parts. But riders can feel the collection of parts rise in concert and transcend themselves to a higher plane of existence, taking us along for the ride.

Riders change, acquiring more skills as time goes on. The bike that was such a challenge to us in the beginning now seems to be unable to follow us to the places our skills can take us. "Upgrade" is the operative word here. Our habits change, as well. At first, maybe we were content to commute and take rides in the country over the weekend. Now perhaps we feel the horizon calling and need a bike that can haul camping gear and a couple changes of clothing. Also, we have a desire to share the things we love with the people we love, which means that person needs to have a comfortable place to enjoy the ride. Whatever the reason, we will find ourselves one day ruminating about Making a Change.

Snow Day

I looked out the window, as I am wont to do these days when time is hanging especially heavy on my hands. The sky was cloudy and those big, heavy flakes that characterize the Great Lakes Snow Machine were pouring out of the sky, piling up on the ground and giving familiar objects in the distance the soft, hazy look of a Japanese watercolor. The wind gusted, rattling the shutters and temporarily changing the trajectory of the snow from vertical to horizontal. I turned away from the window and put another log on the fire, trying to ignore the spasm of a restless spirit.

Looking into the flames, hungrily licking the new wood, my mind began to wander. Instead of the dreariness of mid-winter, my mind's eye began to see a blurred white line, tracing a ribbon of sun-splashed asphalt bisecting the cathedral-like splendor of a Pennsylvania forest. I made a sudden, perhaps rash decision. I left the warmth of the living room and headed for the back door, pausing to pull on a pair of snow boots, heavy coat, gloves, and cap. I mumbled to my long-suffering wife that I was going to the garage. She looked at me and smiled slightly. No one knows my moods like this remarkable woman. I walked out the back door, ignoring the wide-eyed questioning looks of our two cats. Committed outdoor denizens that they are, even they were staying indoors today. I trudged through the fresh snowfall across the short space between the house and the garage, entered the building and shook the snow off my coat.

The garage was utterly quiet, and in the silence I could almost hear the raspy whisper of the snowfall through the roof and walls. With a sharp click, the hum of fluorescent lights replaced the silence and bright light dispelled the winter gloom. And there, standing patiently and faithfully was my motorcycle. Ostensibly, my purpose was to crank the engine over, run the bike through the gears, charge the battery, and accomplish those necessary things that keep the essence of life in an otherwise moribund piece of machinery. But on this day, when my mid-winter blues were deepened by the grim weather, I felt a deeper need, one that sprang from deep within me. I opened both garage doors for ventilation and swung my leg over the seat, a movement made awkward by heavy clothes and boots. With a small sense of drama, I pulled the choke and inserted and turned the key. The instrument panel flashed its colorful lights and the garage was further lit by the bike's powerful headlamp. My thumb came forward on the starter switch and the slow, labored sound of a starter left alone too long issued from the bike. It took a couple of tries, but the engine finally caught with a satisfying throaty roar. Breathing a relieved sigh, I leaned back in the seat, enjoying the sensation of a live bike underneath me.

Ralph Couey

About Me

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Friday, July 15, 2011

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Friday, March 11, 2011

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Monday, December 13, 2010

Two accused road racers face motorcycle forfeitures

Friday, December 3, 2010

Monday, November 15, 2010

Friday, November 12, 2010

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Friday, October 22, 2010

Monday, September 27, 2010

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Monday, August 2, 2010

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Wednesday, July 7, 2010